


The Vodka Fairies Sing Songs of Love

by Mosca



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, POV Second Person, Self Confidence Issues, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/pseuds/Mosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many times can Jeremy hook up with Charlie before they become boyfriends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vodka Fairies Sing Songs of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sandyk for beta reading and Thexpuzzler for cheerleading. I originally posted this to my Livejournal in March 2009. It takes place at the 2009 Four Continents Championship.
> 
> This fic contains very irresponsible drinking.

You're drunk again, and Charlie is asleep in your bed again. He's not your roommate, which means at some point you're going to have to throw him out or throw Brandon out. Unless Brandon is not actually your roommate, which is always a possibility. You're drunk and you have one sock on and nothing else, and unless you find a bottle of vodka under the bed like a present from the vodka fairies, you are going to be hung over soon. "Fuck," you say, remembering that you are supposed to be substituting other words for that.

Charlie rolls over. He is blond and beautiful and naked, which is why you keep winding up with him, because he is always blond and beautiful and it doesn't take much to get him naked. A trickle of drool is drying in the corner of his mouth - at least, you hope it's drool, because the two of you are _exactly_ that careless. "Do I need to leave?" 

"Probably. Like, in the scheme of things, yes." You are looking for your other sock. Maybe the vodka fairies took it as payment. 

"Did you lose something?" He sits up, and the sheets slide down past his hips, and in a second you are going to be on top of him again. For the last time until Worlds, because tomorrow he will get on his airplane and you will get on yours and then you will be 1500 miles away from each other and subject to Tom's strict but sensible "no sex when you're training for Worlds" policy.

"The condom. In your ass." You're probably also supposed to be substituting other words for "ass," but your shrink has not specified one.

Charlie laughs and then says, "That was sarcasm, right? We don't have to go to the emergency room and get me the morning after pill?" and then laughs some more.

Your sock is still missing, and the back of your neck is starting to ache. He's so naked and so gorgeous, and you're wondering how much you have left in you. It took a lot of energy to lose as badly as you did, possibly more energy than it took him to win. When you do everything right, you feel like you could do the whole program seven more times even if you know you're completely wiped out.

There is a really promising liquor store bag under your bed. Peach Stoli, yes, but why did you buy rye whiskey? The evidence for the existence of vodka fairies is mounting by the second, or maybe just the existence of Brandon's fake ID. You are sexiling him _and_ stealing his alcohol; you are the world's worst roommate. You'll find a way to make it up to him, even if it will have to wait until after Tom's strict but sensible "no alcohol when you're training for Worlds, either" policy has elapsed for the year.

"My sock is missing," you say, brandishing a bottle in each hand.

He chooses the whiskey and cracks open the screw top. "Have we ever hooked up sober?"

"I wasn't that drunk at Champs Camp last year."

"You were _incredibly_ drunk at Champs Camp last year." He swigs from the bottle, then makes a face, because rye whiskey is disgusting.

"Not the first night when the girls took all my booze."

"Shit, that's what you're like sober?" He takes another drink and makes another face. "I take it back. Can I have the peach stuff?"

You hug the peach stuff to your chest. "No chance. You made your choice." You straddle his lap and take a deep drink of the peach Stoli, just to fuck with him. Or whatever word you're supposed to be using.

He sits up straighter so your chests are touching. He's always really hard to read. Unlike you - you wear your emotions in neon scrolling across your forehead. He holds you around the waist, the whiskey bottle still in his hand, cool glass against your hip. You close up the peach Stoli so you don't spill it all over him when you kiss him. Covering him in sticky flavored vodka would be hot in porn but would ruin your bed in real life. Not that you watch enough porn to know that. Like, you watch _some_ porn, but this is just speculation. And now you are digging this hole really deep without even saying anything out loud.

Kissing you, he seems distracted. He thinks a lot, is a generally thinky person, and this is one of the many ways in which he is too beautiful, smart, and all-around amazing to ever want you for anything but sex. His mind may be somewhere else, but it's you he's kissing. 

He says, "How many times can we do this before we're, like, having a relationship?" Like he's practiced that sentence and there have been several variations.

"I think, like, infinite. I mean, so far we've been doing a really good job of getting drunk and hooking up, and then not going out."

Gold star for you, because this boy has been turning that question over in his head for weeks, sitting on the airplane going, _Is he my boyfriend? Maybe he's my boyfriend!_ And here you're being a callous douchebag who doesn't care about him either way, who only wants him for his body, who only likes him when you're both drunk. 

Or possibly you are being too hard on yourself, and he likes you just fine. That has been known to happen. Also, there is possibly another word you're supposed to be using for "douchebag."

He slides out from under you, leaving you a wreck on the bed. His face is full of a sadness that is almost anger. "But we could," you say. "I mean, we could, if you -"

"It's okay," he says. "You don't really want to."

"But I -" You stop yourself from saying a few things that aren't true. "I don't know if I want to. I haven't thought about it like that. I always assumed I was, like, the charity case you take on when you're drunk and everyone else is too full of drama."

He's still putting his pants on. You have just given him a longer, more intricate explanation of how he doesn't do anything for you emotionally. You are a horrible person, and you should never be allowed to have sex again, with him or with anyone else. 

He's on his knees, digging under the bed. "I'm missing a sock." You're trying not to look at his butt, but its curve is perfect when he's hunched over like that. "Oh, hey, there's like three bottles of Malibu under here." He rolls one out and stands up. "I haven't had this since I was, like, fourteen."

"You had, like, an entire bottle of that at Champs Camp," you remind him.

"That was Jack Daniels! Have you seen my sock?"

"They were lying to you," you say. It's obvious that you haven't seen his sock, because the vodka fairies are taking them as payment. You feel like you should be building a pyramidal sock sacrifice under the bed to guarantee this continued bounty.

"Wow," he says, "I'm like that, aren't I? Mixed signals. And now it's, like, if I'd said something before, but now it's too late. And I'm taking it out on you, when it's not _on_ you."

"I could, you know. Also have said something." Peach Stoli is not that bad out of the bottle when you are absolutely dying of shame. 

Charlie is sitting in the desk chair trying to open a bottle of Malibu. Trying to think of what to say to you, too, it seems like. He is working hard, thinking, and you don't want to interrupt him. But he's not talking, and it's making you anxious, so you say something dumb. "Although it's hard to have a conversation with your dick in my mouth."

"Yeah," he says. "That's usually kind of... where it is. When we're, you know. Anywhere near each other." He gives up on the impenetrable Malibu bottle and tries one of the other ones. That one yields, and he drinks like a dying man. All this drinking and fucking, not even spending the night, what if it's a way to compensate for not really liking each other?

But you _do_ like him. You like that it is easier to pull an orgasm out of him than a word and that he hides his face when he laughs. And the fact that he is both smarter and hotter than you but is still trying to be your boyfriend - that is a fact you could fall in love with. 

You get out of bed as he's getting up from the chair, and you meet in the middle of the floor, on the narrow strip of carpet between the bed and the window. You kiss him hoping he will read on your lips that you think he's worth a try. It's too much to ask, because what you want him to read is your mind. But he's letting you kiss him, and he's not walking away. 

You stop kissing him and tilt your neck back to look at him, his face so close to yours that he's out of focus. Mostly, he seems disappointed that you took your tongue out of his mouth, so you put it back in. He's not clawing at you or pushing you down onto the bed like you're used to. This is a whole different kind of kissing. It feels like you're asking him out and he's accepting.

You tug the front of his jeans and let his weight push you backward onto the bed. He covers the right half of your body with his, wrapping his leg around yours. You kiss languidly, not in a rush to take this anywhere else, happy under the warmth of his skin.

You hear the key in the door and push him off of you, swearing a blue streak while you pull the blankets over yourself. 

Brandon is waving his hands around and apologizing. He doesn't admit it, but he'd thought Charlie would be gone by now, and usually he'd be right. Unlike you, Charlie is not having a panic attack, and he asks Brandon, "Hey, wanna switch rooms for the night?"

He's inviting himself over. You're ecstatic.

Brandon stuffs some clothes into his carry-on luggage while Charlie calls his roommate and you lie there like a dead fish, open-mouthed and everything. Charlie has no shirt on and one hand in the pocket of his jeans. If he could just be like that all the time, you could spend the rest of your life staring at him. It would be a good life. He says, "Yeah, I think I'm staying here. Yeah, it's been a good night."

So Brandon has a place to sleep and you are alone in a hotel room with your new boyfriend. You kick off the blankets and come up behind him to stick your hands down the back of his jeans. He laughs shyly, and his curls tumble forward over his face. You bite the back of his neck. He peels off his jeans despite your hands and teeth, showing off his sense of balance, his impeccable concentration.

Your dick is about an inch from his butt, but you're not hard enough. You sink to your knees, trailing your palms down his legs. He turns around, which actually wasn't what you had in mind, but if he wants you to give him head, you'll give him what he wants. He moans the second your tongue touches his dick. You have one hand on his dick and the other working the soft skin of his balls, squeezing to get another moan out of him. You trace your hand between his legs and up the cleft of his butt. One thing you know about him is, he loses all control the second you put anything inside him: fingers, dick, probably even vegetables. You stick a finger in his butt and then another, and he is fucking your face so hard you have to remind yourself to breathe. He comes, hot and thick, hard to swallow.

You stumble backwards into bed, and he follows you, wrapping himself around you like a sweat-drenched sheet. He says, "You're, like, ridiculously good at that."

"See, you don't want a boyfriend. You just want _that._ "

He kisses a random part of your cheek, whatever is closest to his lips. "If that was what I wanted, I wouldn't be asking out someone who lives, like, a couple thousand miles away from me. And whose coach has, like, an official policy on when you get to have sex."

You guess he has a point. "So, like, what do we do in between?"

"I don't even know. I thought you were, like - I mean, I - I've never actually had, like, a boyfriend before." He says _boyfriend_ like it's a word in another language, and he's not sure he's using it right. "I've, you know, hooked up a lot, obviously, but with skating and school, it's always been, you know. Busy."

He probably thinks you're way ahead of him, that you have a breadcrumb trail of broken hearts behind you. But there is exactly one person who, in retrospect, you are willing to think of as an ex-boyfriend. Does the girl you went out with for half of your sophomore year of high school, back when you thought God wanted you to be straight, even count? You've had a lot more opportunities to practice your blow job technique.

You don't know what to say to him, this guy who insists on liking you no matter how much you rationalize him away, so you do what you're used to. You turn his face to yours and kiss him. He presses into you, furrowing your hair, like he realizes you've understood the question he's been trying to ask, like you've figured out the answer: _Yes, I am a little in love with you._

His tongue is in your mouth, but his hands are all over you. Like he is not trying to turn you on so much as take you in. You arch your neck back so he can kiss it. But he doesn't stay there. He doesn't linger on your nipples, either, or on your stomach, where you're ticklish. He's diving for your tattooed hip. When he licks it, you shiver, and nothing else wakes your dick up faster. He wants you hard, and he wants you in him. 

You roll over to pull him under you, facing you, the way you want him. He always stretches his arms over his head and curves his back when you're on top of him, like you've tied him up and taken him prisoner but he's happy about it. You find the condom box on the floor and the lube on top of the Gideon Bible with the squeeze lid flipped open, and you feel his intense eyes all over you.

He rides your fingers so forcefully, you almost feel bad about taking them out and fucking him. But you're so hard, and you want to last for him. You hold back, keeping your hips slow, your sticky hands on his chest. He makes guttural noises more like pleas than moans: he wants you more and harder. You let loose on him, pressing him down into the bed, making him shout. You let yourself stop thinking about him as the pleasure swells up in your dick, and you are all "Fuck, fuck, fuck yes" as his body yields to yours, as your mind goes white with ecstasy.

His afterglow is angelic. You feel like you should clean yourself up, but you'd rather lie with your head on his chest. His heart is calming under your jaw. You reach for his dick, but he says, "No, let it go." His voice vibrates in your skull like you are reading his thoughts.

In moments like this one, it feels like that's what you're doing, hearing inside his head. And maybe you do; maybe you have been all along. You're both athletes, dancers, people who speak with your bodies, and your labored conversations might be the worst way to talk to each other. Your bodies were probably in love with each other long before your brains knew what they were doing.

But there are limits to what you can say before you have to start fumbling around for words. Tomorrow night, he'll be back in Michigan, and you won't have his hand on the back of your neck to tell you the whole story of his heart. So you'll have to try.

"I guess we won't see each other for a while after this," he says.

"Yeah, I think I'm just going to hold onto you until then," you say. 

His abs ripple against your mouth when he laughs. The two of you come up with ways to stay in touch. Phone calls and texts, obviously. Leaving silly shit on each other's Facebook walls. Emailing each other dirty webcam videos. Tying messages to Keauna McLaughlin's leg and tossing her back and forth. Talking isn't that difficult when you're not trying to say anything important.

You make out for a couple of minutes but decide you're both wiped. While you're setting the alarm clock, Charlie says, "Hey, I bet Brandon's bed is a whole lot less gross than this one." You curl up together in the tight, clean, starchy sheets, and you fall asleep breathing his skin. With two unmade beds, this will all look innocent in the morning.

Waking up is a frenzy because you have to get downstairs before all the good stuff is gone from the complementary breakfast. Charlie puts on yesterday's clothes and gets ready for his shame walk. By the time you're out of the shower, Brandon is back, packing with his headphones on, oblivious to you or just polite. He waits until you're mostly dressed to say, "Any idea what happened to all the liquor that was under your bed?"

"Yeah, Charlie and I rounded it all up. He's going to donate it to the Canadians. Sorry we drank so much of it."

"Hey, don't apologize to me," Brandon says. "I bought it for Rachael and Caydee and stuff, and they had this brilliant idea to hide it under your bed. And then you hooked up."

You laugh, wishing your hair were long enough to fall shyly in your face. But when you grow your hair out, it just looks like the shag carpet in your grandparents' basement. "We were actually... like, we had this whole story about gifts from the vodka fairies."

Brandon hurls a sock at you. It's the one you couldn't find last night. "Way to give yourself a new nickname, J."

You pack your suitcases while Brandon tells you about the parties you missed. You keep waiting for him to ask about Charlie, but either he's caught up in himself or he doesn't want to know. Rachael will probably get you to spill all the details on the plane, but for now, you're glad to keep them to yourself. You'll have no privacy in this relationship, so you want to hold onto your secrets.

You leave your luggage with the USFSA coordinator and go to breakfast. Most of the other Broadmoor skaters are together at the table, but if you sit with them, you won't get to sit with Charlie. It's too much like bringing him home to meet your family. You travel down the buffet line in slow motion, letting everyone else budge in front of you, waiting for Charlie to get there.

When he does, his eyes light on you, and he breaks out in a smile that throws his eyes open wide and makes his hair seem to shine. You cram a few more slices of melon onto your plate and claim the last empty table in the room. He joins you with nothing but coffee and a fork, and you let him steal from your plate because you have taken enough food for about five ice skaters. 

People from the Broadmoor table keep glancing over at you and whispering. And not just them: the Detroit kids and Team Japan and skaters from countries you have barely heard of, all very aware of a table with two guys and one breakfast. You wish your suitcase weren't full of balled-up clothes, because you want to go crawl inside it.

So you do the only thing you can do. You stand up on your chair, make a goofy face, and bow as if saluting the judges. Suddenly, everyone is very busy eating. You scramble back into your seat before your boyfriend can finish all your French toast. Everything you want to say to him, you can't say in public. You brush his hand with your fingertips, and when he smiles, you feel like you're all the way inside him.


End file.
